The Garden
Here is my prompt– better late than never. Life got crazy, but I’m glad that I was able to write the majority of it before I left. Please forgive some of the tense errors– I didn’t get a chance to have anyone read it to edit it. But I did have fun writing this. !!
Prompt- Katniss gives Peeta a garden @thegirlfromoverthepond
Summary- When Peeta starts to withdraw years after the war, Katniss decides to repay the primroses with a similar act in hopes of bringing him back to life.
Rating- G for total fluff.
Sentimental was never a trait that I would have used to describe myself. Selfish. Inconsiderate. Self-destructive. But I never thought of myself as someone who was sentimental. Maybe I always had been, subconsciously. I’d kept her father’s jacket, wearing it through the woods as if I was still 6 and his hand was still pressed into my back, leading me over fallen trees and running creeks. I kept his bow, although it was no longer hidden in a tree but perched by the doorway of my home. The family’s book was set out on the coffee table, where I could see it every day and be reminded of my losses.
The pearl is always in my pocket, even now.
But even with all that, I didn’t think of myself in that way. Other, more negative, traits seemed to shape me as a person. It was all I could see.
Until he planted the primrose around my house.
I remember that day vividly. When the scraping of metal against dirt woke something dead inside. The feel of cold wood against my feet as I furiously stumbled down the steps to see who was making all that noise. The rush of heat that filled my core when I saw the familiar mop of blond curls, short from the fire just like mine. The anger of the idea of roses, followed by the sadness when I realized who they were for.
But mostly, I remember the way he always seemed to give me hope. If it wasn’t with dandelions, it was with evening primroses.
The first year had been tough for the two of us. Since we we Reaped, we went from strangers, to a comfortable friendship, to total strangers once more. I’d fallen in love with the boy who threw the bread. Who volunteered to go back into the Games so that I had my best chance to live. Who stood by my side as we protected Gale. Who carried me to bed every night when my heel was shattered. Losing him to the Capitol made me appreciate the boy he had been. But he wasn’t that boy anymore.
But I wasn’t the same either. No one to protect. No one to try and keep alive. I was broken, the pieces of myself left in graves scattered across Panem. A piece with Finnick, who they buried at sea in Four. A piece with my sister, who I buried in the meadow. A piece with Cinna, who never received a proper burial since he’d been labeled a traitor. There was so little of myself left— looking in the mirror forced the realization that scars weren’t the only permanent mark.
No, I wanted to figure out the new relationship. I needed to know the new Peeta.
If nothing else, I needed to find the peace to move on from him.
It was slow. There were no camera, no one judging our actions. At least, no one who really mattered.
It started with bread. Which seemed fitting, because it always started with bread.
Peeta brought it over the morning after the primroses. There had been a tentative look in his eyes as he handed the me the loaf. We both knew that things weren’t the same. There was no way to go back to before the Quell. No way to forget the Games. The war had made sure that neither of us could be the same. Snow had won, even in death. But there he was, still a little shy as he rocked on his real leg. If I hadn’t been so lost in my own grief, I might have smiled at his presence. I might have made a comment to relax him. But I couldn’t get out of my own head. All I could do was step back, hoping he’d come in with the bread. Sae invited him in when I couldn’t. And she kept him talking while she finished up a meal for the three of us.
It became our routine. There were days when neither of them said much. I rarely participated in the conversation most of the time. I was too raw, too bitter about the house I was still in. About the lack of sister to keep me company. I didn’t want to talk about how Twelve was being rebuilt. Or about the new people who were invading my District. Or about the weather.
Slowly, I found myself unable to keep silent anymore. Their conversations would pull me in, and anger was easy to find. My words were harsh, the filter on my brain beyond repairing. I talked about how I hated the change, how I didn’t want to get to know any of the new people, and how I wished that they all would leave. Maybe I did it in hopes that Peeta would realize that I was damaged worse than he imagined. But even after everything he’d been through, he was still gentle in his reassurance that it would be okay.
Because that was the catch, wasn’t it? With things the way they were, the last thing I wanted was more change. I didn’t want new people to stare at me while I went out to the woods, whispering about the ‘girl on fire’. I didn’t want their judgment at my short hair and scarred body. And I certainly didn’t want to see new things pop up as if the old ones didn’t matter. I was mad, and I went about it the only way I knew how— passive aggressively. My whole life had revolved around things I couldn’t control; the amount of food we ate, my father’s death, The Quell. I didn’t know how to push change through. And I certainly didn’t know how to control this new life. So I complained. Because that was easier.
Not fair to my daily company, by any means. But they knew me well enough to expect it.
When he didn’t come over for breakfast one fall morning, I almost let it slide. Because I told myself I didn’t care about him being there. I told myself it was easier to start over without him in my life. But that was a lie, too. And I hid my feelings behind the anger and disappointment of him not being there. So I stormed over to his house, ready to berate him for leaving Sae and I without any bread this morning.
I never expected to find him looking the way I felt so many days since returning. In the course of 24 hours, he had slipped back to the boy who had been cuffed to a bed in Thirteen. The wild look in his eyes when another person saw him was one I hated to admit that I recognized. And I tried not to be hurt by it, but I was. I wanted to close the door. I couldn’t face this side of him, not when I had gotten so used to his calm and reassuring ways.
I almost did.
Taking a look around the kitchen, it was easy to spot the blood that covered the surfaces. I don’t understand what had happened when he was tortured, but I know that this accident with a knife was the catalyst for his breakdown. I can count the amount of time I’ve been calm around human blood on one hand. And I am able to add this day onto the list.
I knew what he did to me last time he was like this, but suddenly, I didn’t care. I didn’t think twice about grabbing a towel and wetting it, dropping to the ground to pull his hands into my own. Months of eating his filling breads had brought back my strength, so I was able to keep his hands in my own, even as he fought to pull them away. I focused on the task, failing to noticed that he stopped trying to pull away. He had stopped muttering under her breath, the heat of his eyes on my face distracting.
“You healed me by the river. Real or not real?”
This is the first time he’s asked this question since being home. It takes me back to Thirteen, where so many people I loved ended up dead. I want to drop his hands and leave. I want to ball myself into the closet for a week and forget the memories of it. But I don’t. I swallowed the sandpaper in my throat and answered, “Real.” My voice felt thick, strangely not like my own. I wanted to ask him what he remembered, but I don’t. I don’t tell him how relieved I was to find him alive, or how scared I was that he was going to die.
I don’t do feelings. I don’t do emotions. So I focus on wrapping the wound, tying it tightly before finally looking up at him. His eyes were clear, concerned. This is the first time I’ve had to deal with him without the protection of anyone else in the Capitol, and I know he was worried about how I was taking it.
I don’t know how I feel about this. Or how I feel about him. How was I supposed to deal with this alone? He looked guilty, and I knew it wasn’t because of what he did, but of how I found him. His hand curled around my own, “One minute I was fine, the next I was a mutt.” He said softly, like he had to apologize for his actions.
I wanted to say more, to let him know that it was fine. But my mouth wouldn’t move. Maybe it was because I was too afraid to say something that might set him off again. Or maybe it was because I was scared that I would say the wrong thing. My track record for putting my foot in my mouth was high. I was famous for making him feel bad with my words. It’s never my intention to hurt him, and yet I always seemed to do it.
“You aren’t a mutt, Peeta.” I pulled him to his feet, settling him onto a stool. I don’t say anything else as I worked on cleaning up the kitchen. He was blushing, but I tried not to look at him. I focused on the work, on salvaging what I could. On removing the blood from the surfaces of the kitchen, washing the knife too.
I didn’t say anything for the rest of my visit, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to put words behind my concern. The next morning, his silent peace offering was the same dense bread he’d thrown in the rain. It was like something had changed between us— he’d seen me at my weakest in the beginning, and I had seem him after his worst moments. There was a new understanding, one that didn’t need my poor word to try and make it worse. We both felt the shift in things, which made the friendship start on a different foot.
Something had clicked with us, and he was able to make me laugh when no one else could. And I could bring the flush to his cheeks with a simple look. Smiling became a little easier. I might not have known how to care for the boy, but he certainly didn’t make finding out hard. Our hands were drawn together by tough memories, by words not spoken. Our conversations became easier, the tension rolling away like a spring fog. We fell into a comfortable routine, our morning spent together, parting our separate ways after breakfast. I don’t know what he did most days, not when I was in the woods. But we both reunited over dinner, most often with either Haymitch or Sae as our companion. He had his breakdowns, and I had mine. But I could usually center him back in Twelve with relative ease just like he could pull me out of Prim’s small closet. If nothing else, we understood each other’s demons.
I thought I understood him, anyway.
I didn’t expect his severe breakdown. Not when he began to shut himself down in the most destructive way. Every time I went over to try and coax him back into reality, he buried himself further and further into the depression. He started to get violent, and that’s went Haymitch forced me to back off. It wasn’t for my safety, but for Peeta’s own mind. If, once he returned to normal, he realized that he had physically harmed me, Haymitch knew that it would just make things worse for his mental health.
But I couldn’t just watch as he self-destructed. And I certainly couldn’t stand while he disappeared again. I did that once in Thirteen, and I couldn’t do it again.
I wouldn’t do it again.
But I didn’t know how to fix this. Hell, I didn’t even know what had happened to break him.
I sorted through my mail one afternoon, simply for something to do to take my mind off of everything when I found the letter. Curly, familiar script that could only belong to Effie. The letter explained that President Paylor was looking for ways to remember those who had died after the Capitol fell, asking that Peeta and I return to the Capitol for a memorial service 5 years in the making. Looking up at the date of the letter, it all seemed to make sense.
His deterioration. His separation. His anger.
Had he really had a chance to deal with the death of his family? The loss of everything he knew?
Had any of us?
I certainly hadn’t, if I was going to be honest. Prim’s room was still as she had left it, save for the rumpled sheets from me sleeping in her bed. Her brush, exactly where she had left it in our bathroom, couldn’t be put away. I’d left her things in their place as if she was just training to be a doctor instead of buried underground.
Peeta had nothing to remember his family by. No mementoes. No trinkets. Not even his memories were fully intact. There was no place for him to mourn. No gravesite. Neither of us had really moved on. Still stuck in the Games, patiently waiting for death to find us like an old friend.
Two days later, I finally pulled myself out of the closet I was hidden in. Standing on my porch, staring out at the house across the way, I couldn’t help but wonder just how far gone he was. Had he even painted since coming home? Or sketched at all? Before, I had rarely seen him without the pad tucked under his arm or a pencil behind his ear. But that trait, too, had been lost to the war. I finally realized how often he really broke down. Once a year, his demons were louder than I ever could be. It always took longer to bring him back to reality. He spent those days stuck in his own head, dealing with the loss of his family.
Looking down at the primroses, full in bloom 4 years after being planted, I decided then that I was done accepting that there was nothing I could do to recover from those losses.
Yes, Prim was gone, but if I moved her things, it didn’t mean she would be forgotten. And I refused to let Peeta lose himself to his grief. Why couldn’t we both come to terms with this? I knew that he wasn’t doing well mentally because he hadn’t been painting. That had been his main form of therapy before after the Games. And I wasn’t going to let him forget that no matter how gruesome the images he painted were, he would always have me.
I owed it to him. And to myself.
The plan, however rough it was, didn’t really form in my mind until I stared at the plant book. It sat unfinished, unattended and all but forgotten on the coffee table. I hadn’t look at it in years, the pain seeming too fresh to bother with opening it. Sae must have unpacked it when I returned, placing it back on the coffee table in the living room where it belonged. The tattered cover was begging to be opened again.
I silently dropped onto the couch, pulling the book into my crossed legs. I don’t know what I needed more, the familiar scratch of my father’s writing or the beautiful reminder of Peeta’s goodness. And even though I expected to break down, I didn’t. I had learned that crying wasn’t always breaking down. That it could be just as healing as a reassuring hand.
It was easy to recognize Peeta’s work. My father had done his best to draw the plants, but Peeta painted them into life. It was like I could reach out and touch them, feel the petals against my skin. How long had it been since Peeta had felt like he could really see the beauty in art? He needed to find that again.
And why the hell couldn’t I help him?
It didn’t take long to try and figure out a plan. There was 7 months until the 5 year anniversary. That was 7 months to help bring Peeta back to me. With only one place in this world that brings me peace, I can’t help but wonder if it could do the same for him.
And then, it falls together.
I spend the next few days drawing up plans, making lists of things I need to order from the Capitol. I don’t bother to leave the house, not until I’ve got everything set up for my plan. Effie makes it easy to do, somehow knowing exactly who to contact and where to order. Once I’ve got the order placed, I started to find the local help I’ll need.
I’m hesitant to really leave my home before giving Peeta a chance to show up for breakfast. Sae makes sure to leave whatever we are having at his kitchen window, always cracked open. And most days, it’s gone from its place when I return. By waiting, I get a late start in the two hour trek. And I usually end up home well after sundown. Most days, I was too exhausted to eat more than dried meat for dinner. And most nights, because of the laborious work, the nightmares left me alone.
It was usually Peeta’s screams that woke me.
I’ve tried to go to him. But he doesn’t open the door. He takes measures to lock me out, cutting the vines that lead to the second story where I could climb up. There is nothing I can do for him when he’s like this. And while it hurts to know that I’ve lost him, I’m comforted by the fact that I’ve got a solid plan this time to bring him back.
The prep work keeps me busy long enough until my packages arrive from the Capitol. Some of them are little packets. Others come in large boxes, cutting down on the rooting times. If I want this to be finished in time, cutting a few corners in necessary. But I don’t just buy seeds for my project. Somehow, I’ve found peace in the dirt. In cutting the lines of soil. There is a balance between hunting and planting.
I start a garden in the backyard of my house. With the fence all but torn down in 4 years, I have to add thin wiring to keep the newly courageous deer out of the seedlings. After a little research, I start with potatoes, something that is cheap to plant and grows quickly. The onions are next, sprouting quickly. Root vegetables were easiest, and the deer seemed to stay away from them. It will be interesting to not have to go through the woods to look for things I used to dig up in the wild.
Soon, the little garden in my backyard is filled with plants. Between my secret protect for Peeta and this, my days are busy. I planted tomatoes and lettuces and even gourds. It takes a lot of love to get the ground behind my house fertile for plants. But once it is, there is no stopping it from growing.
My project doesn’t require as much attentions. Once it’s planted, it requires very little care.
Once my little garden flourishes, I don’t allow Peeta to hide anymore. I break a window in his front door, unlocking it to allow myself entrance. His house isn’t as filthy as I was expecting. I was really expecting him to have turned into a new Haymitch. But I should have also know that Peeta would never be like that. Even after his worse episode, he has the peace of mind to clean up once he’s lucid.
But the house lacks the smell of fresh bread, something that I had grown to associate with the boy. It made me mad, in a way I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know what he was doing with his days, if he wasn’t baking. I spent days sleeping, unable to wake from the nightmares that haunted me. He must have been doing the same.
I know that I’ve surprised him by the look on his face when he finally makes his way down the stairs. His face hadn’t been shaved in a while, his beard far darker than I would have expected. His hair, although clean, is long and curling far beyond his ears. If he is embarrassed, it is hidden significantly by the growth of hair. I don’t need to see the dark circles under his eyes to know he hasn’t been sleeping well.
His eyes are haunting. I might have been sleeping a little better due to exhaustion, but I know that the look in his eyes will cause my own flashbacks.
“What are you doing here, Katniss?” He asks, shoving his hands into the loose pockets of his cotton pants. I force myself not to look at his bare chest. Or to focus on the amount of weight he’s lost in a few months. I refuse to blush at his appearance. I have seen him in worse condition without a shirt before.
The basket on the counter becomes his focus, and mine too. Instead of letting him rummage though it, I start to unpack it into the fridge. I can feel his eyes on me as I move through the kitchen as if it was my own. Pulling a bowl out of the cabinet, I fill it with the root veggies and set a gourd right next to it. I put the tomatoes into the fridge with a head of lettuce. I’ve also taken wild strawberries and transplanted them into my garden. The little blueberry bush hasn’t produced fruit yet, but I’m excited to show him everything else that I’ve grown this summer. “I’m showing off.” I tell him.
His face is a little shocked. I’ve never been a braggart, but how else was I suppose to get his attention?
“What?”
I walk past him, shoving a fresh strawberry into his mouth. “The weather’s been on my side lately. While you’ve been trying to be Haymitch, I’ve created a garden.” With his mouth full, he’s unable to say anything else at the moment. “I tried to order an orange tree, but they didn’t have any ready. But by the end of the Fall, I’ll have one to keep in the house until it’s ready to plant next Spring.”
His hand reaches out and grabs me, stopping me from walking past him. It’s the first time he’s touched me in months. My breath catches as the lightness of his touch. “I mean, why did you break my window to get in?”
I shrug at him, a tiny little motion that is almost missed, “You wouldn’t let me in.” I give him a smile. “I’m taking care of you.” Like it’s painfully obvious. “Go get dressed. And put on sturdy shoes. I want to show you something.” I’ve already got a bag packed with lunch back at my house. I turn him around, pushing him back towards the stairway. “Don’t take too long.”
He’s still puzzled, but he doesn’t argue. We are both stubborn, but he does know that I’m more likely to win this kind of fight. I hear the shower running, which gives me a chance to walk around his house, to see just how bad it has been for him. The house is clean, but a little disjointed. Anything that made the house his, mainly his paintings, have been removed from the walls. The painting of the view from outside our cave is gone from over the fireplace. His sketchbook isn’t on the coffee table. There isn’t a single charcoal pencil lying around the house. Nor is the cup full of paintbrushes drying by the window.
What has he been doing with his time?
But the windows are open. That gives me comfort that he’s not completely gone.
There isn’t much that I can do, except wonder just how long it is going to take him to come back this time. I want to be mad at myself for waiting, for giving him the space he needed. But I really can’t be upset about it. I’m moving forward, remembering the past and trying to make some sort of future. I have to remind myself it as I stare at the bare house. As I loose sight of who Peeta is now.
The heavy steps bring me back to reality, and suddenly, I’m excited again. My plan is in action and there is no turning back now. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about how he would react. But I have to try something. I miss him, miss his goodness. He came back here for me, now I just need to bring him back.
He’s dressed in a light colored, long sleeved shirt with the buttons on the henley undone. His pants are dark brown, a good pair of boots on his feet. Peeta looks exhausted, and I wish I didn’t have an idea as to why. I know he hasn’t been sleeping, the lights on in his house most of the time. But he’s humoring me today, and I’m okay with that.
I sling the bag over my back, my hand grabbing his large ones as I tug him out of the door with him. He’s still trying to fight it, but I won’t let him. I pull him through the Village. The fence that used to surround the District is gone. There is no hum to listen for. People have even cut small paths through the woods, trails spanning through the hills. Usually, I avoid the trails— prey don’t usually go near them. Today, I take them as much as I can. Peeta’s still clumsy and loud, so the flatter the landscape the better for his unsure feet.
We make good time on the trails, but we don’t stay on them the whole way. After an hour, we move from the trails deeper into the woods. He doesn’t complain as we move, too focused on staying upright. I don’t complain either, enjoying the feel of his large hand in mine. This is the longest contact we’ve had in what feels like months. I held his hand initially to make sure he followed me closely. Now, it’s because I want to. Our speed is about half of how I can move on my own, but I’m not about to pull away.
An hour after cutting from the trail, we are close. And I’m bouncing with excitement. I turn back to him, catching a soft smile on his face. My eyebrow raises. “What?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited.”
I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at him, but instead I pull a rag out of my pocket. I tug him down to my level and cover his eyes with it. “You could have killed me in a easier way, you know.”
“Hush, you.” I frown at him, but he smiles anyway. He can see that I’m faking any angry on my face. There is a shift, the moment I knot the rag behind his head. I grab his hand once more and lead the way. We only have about 100 feet to go, breaking through the tree line to the lake and cabin that I’ve shown no one else. I take a moment to take in the hard work, to allow Peeta time to squirm.
And then, I remove his blindfold.
I’ve seen it daily. I’ve been working on this for months. So I don’t look at the sight around us.
I’m too busy staring at the wonder on Peeta’s face.
When I first started planting, I had a firm plan laid out. But then, the seeds came. And nature took over. Wildflowers are dotted in between the obviously transplanted one. The only roses I plant are primroses, and they are everywhere. The field beside the lake is covered in flowers. Not just dozens, hundreds. I’ve tried to find as many varieties as I could, with as many that could survive the harsh weather of Twelve. Even the katniss plants are in bloom, dotting the perimeter of the massive garden.
I once heard him describe color, to the dying morphling in the Quell. Every time I came down here, I heard his voice in my mind. And the variety of plants have brought his words to life. Purples so deep they are almost black. Blues so light they blend into the sky. He is the one who is good with words, but I can’t help but hope that I’ve done his own justice.
I’ve turned my father’s paradise into my own.
Peeta hasn’t said anything. He stares at the flowers, his face blank except for his eyes. They are wide, damp with tears. I’ve never been good with emotions, keeping my own at bay until they burst. I don’t know if I should try and comfort him, or ask him what he is thinking. I’m terrified to say something wrong, something that might tip him in the direction I’ve been hoping to avoid. But I refuse to bolt, to give into my natural instinct to run from the situation entirely. I did this for him— to leave now would be cowardly.
His arms pull me in, wrapping me tightly into his shaking embrace.
At first, I freeze. I’m so unused to his touch that the ripple of electricity that rips through me almost terrifies me enough to bolt. But my smile is tentative and my arms wrap around him. Even though it has been months since we’ve had contact, the familiarity is still there. The feeling of home hasn’t gone away. And I can’t help but sigh into his shoulder as he holds me. There is no ignoring the wetness that is against my own neck. I wanted to say something in this moment, but words fail me.
Hopefully my actions have been enough.
He releases me silently, stepping into the patch of grown flowers. His hands search out the petals, as if he is trying to memorize the look and feel. I can only hope that this is in order to pick up his brush and paint once more. I know I’ll never forget this moment. My pale, blonde boy with the bread standing in the center of a rainbow of light. If I didn’t know better, he would almost look like he was ready to step into the sunlight and leave me to this dark world alone.
Suddenly, he turns to me, grinning. There is no way to know what he is thinking, but I have an idea. His hand is held out towards me, waiting. I don’t hesitate to join him, because this was the reaction I was hoping for. My hand slides easily into his, each of our of calluses reuniting with familiarity. But he doesn’t stop there. No, he pulls me close, his hands falling onto my waist. We are hip to hip, and his eyes are captivating, holding my in their light gaze.
“I know things have been rough, Peeta.” I start, my breathing hitching as his forehead rests against mine. “I know they always will be. But I was hoping that this would remind you of the good. Of the pinks and greens you love so much.”
“Katniss.”
But I don’t let him finish. “And I thought that maybe, if you had a place to go that was yours. Or ours, that you might feel better.”
“Katniss.”
I didn’t realize that my eyes had closed until he said my name. I open my eyes, my breath no longer steady. His hand moves to my cheek, thumb brushing against the skin. The intensity of his eyes brings heat under his hand. There is nothing for me to say, and his eyes are saying everything.
For the first time, there is no hidden agenda behind the kiss. There isn’t a camera nearby. I’m not trying to bring him out of an episode. We both have a clear head. There is no hesitation in his lips, firm and reassuring against mine. My hands snake up to his neck, holding him close. The feeling that rips through me reminds of the beach kiss, of the sunset and waves. Even the slight saltiness of his lips bring me back there.
And it’s not a memory that scares me.
No, when he pulls away, we are both smiling. For the first time, it seems that I am the one who has left him speechless.
I show him the cabin, introducing him to my father in the only way I know how. As I set up our lunch, I’m happy to see that he’s picked up the sketch pad and pencil that I’ve set so obviously on the table. He positions himself by the window and I’m not sure what exactly he’s drawing.
But my heart dances with each scratch of the pencil on paper.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ve bought him home like he did for me.
